


A River So Long: being a multi-season Love Story in three Acts, color-coded for Your Convenience (brought to you by Americans For A Better Tomorrow, Tomorrow)

by ErinPtah



Category: Fake News FPF
Genre: 2012 United States Election, Break Up, Christmas, Closeted Character, Colbert SuperPAC, Dubious Consent, M/M, Pesach | Passover, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-14
Updated: 2013-02-14
Packaged: 2017-11-29 05:53:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/683593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ErinPtah/pseuds/ErinPtah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: <em>Stephen's tirade on election night. "Then you realise you made a terrible mistake but it will be too late, you had the chance but you rejected him and now [Mitt Romney] will never want your [vote] again." We all know he meant "Jon" instead of "Mitt" and "love" instead of "vote."</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Act I. The Green Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The long-deferred romantic tension between Jon and Stephen ignites in the beginning of 2012. Trouble is, Jon's in something of an altered state of mind, thanks to that sudden infusion of unlimited and untraced cash....

**Valentine season.**

_January._

It started, fittingly enough, with the SuperPAC.

Jon had planned for a simple monetary transfer, to be treated with all due ethics before, during, and after. Then he saw the sum involved (the legally unlimited and unregulated sum!), and tried to lick the check. At last Stephen took his hands, and there was a rush of emerald-green light and Trevor Potter intoning what could _not_ be real legalese in the background, and then....

And then Jon didn't care any more.

He didn't wait for Stephen to make it back to the privacy of the office. He barely waited for Stephen to get out of view of the audience after the credits had rolled. There in the middle of the hall, in full view of a long row of cubicles with a dozen staffers plus at least three dogs, Jon grabbed Stephen by the lapels and hauled him into a wet, confident kiss.

"Hngruh," said Stephen, when Jon let him go. Someone started clapping; Stephen whipped his head around. "Who is that? You're fired!"

"I am?" asked Trevor Potter.

"You're not," decided Jon. "You came with the SuperPAC, right? Well, I like you, so I'm keeping you."

And he nearly tore Stephen's jacket as he yanked the man back down, the better to maul his neck.

There was a reason he hadn't done this before, right? Was it a good reason? Couldn't have been. All those throaty, panting noises Stephen was making were worth shattering at least twenty standards for.

 

 

Their first time together was everything Stephen had dreamed of.

Which was weird, because he hadn't realized Jon was _capable_ of being everything he had dreamed of. Stephen liked him and all, and wouldn't have objected to sex with the man as a general rule, but he knew Jon had this fetish for being reasonable and understanding that was seriously at odds with Stephen's normal fantasies. Plus he was, let's be fair, tending toward the decrepit.

And tonight, none of it came up. Tonight, Jon shoved Stephen around, manhandled him, and got in a couple of honest-to-goodness bites without bothering to confirm that that was on Stephen's kink list, all with the athleticism of a much younger man.

Stephen adored it.

"How come you never did that before?" he asked afterward, flat on his back in bed while Jon toweled himself off.

Jon shrugged. "Had a reason," he said, unconcerned. "Let's see...uh...something about wanting you to be more honest with yourself first, and knock it off with the whole 'blaming the gays for everything' schtick? Especially when we all know you're not hiring from Rentboy.com for their production skills."

"Julian is a very competent camera operator," said Stephen stiffly.

"Uh-huh." Jon ruffled Stephen's hair, as one would with a dog that had just done something endearingly stupid. "Gonna go grab some chips and beer. You want anything?"

It was Stephen's own kitchen Jon was planning to plunder, but he relaxed anyway. "Bring me Doritos!"

Left alone for the moment, Stephen dug out his phone, which had somehow ended up under the bed between a spare cord to a TV he no longer owned and, ooh, a ball gag he had never taken out of the packaging. (They would have to fix that later.) His call was picked up on the second ring.

"Hi, Trevor? Before I ask anything else, is it illegal for both me and Jon to use the same lawyer now?"

"No, Stephen, you're in the clear on that," said the greatest lawyer in the history of lawyerdom.

"Oh, good! Then I can ask the main thing, which is: how illegal is it to have sex with my SuperPAC director? Hypothetically speaking, I mean."

"Depends," said Trevor, sounding solemn and understanding and not at all like he was about to crack up. Or at least, that was how Stephen chose to perceive him. "How coordinated was the sex?"

Stephen rubbed his hip, and winced at the bruise developing there from when Jon had shoved him into the bedpost. "Not very."

"Then congratulations, you have the full blessing of the United States Supreme Court. Have fun."

 

 

For a while, the fun came easy. It helped that Jon's apartment was only two floors above Stephen's, so they didn't have to work at it to coordinate their non-coordination.

"These are amazing," moaned Stephen, as Jon pushed him face-first into the silkiest sheets he'd ever felt. "Must have cost you a fortune."

"All the better to ravish you on, my dear," purred Jon, and tried to rip Stephen's shirt off.

The operative word there being "tried". Newfound strength or not, Jon was still no match for the well-sewn thread of Stephen's buttons. Before he could be embarrassed about it, Stephen rolled over on his back and pulled Jon in for a cuddle. "Here, do 'em from the front."

Jon smirked, all roguish smile and tumbling-tousled hair and piercing green eyes. "How about if we just not bother with the shirt," he said, before hiking it up Stephen's torso and moving down to Stephen's pants.

Today's bruise came from banging the crown of his head against the headboard. Jon used _teeth_.

It wasn't until after a good five minutes of boneless collapse, while Jon smoked what appeared to be a joint made with a rolled-up twenty, that Stephen found the presence of mind to wonder things again. Like: maybe Stephen wasn't always the brightest tack in the barn when it came to observing other people, but weren't Jon's eye's blue? Also, was he desecrating SuperPAC cash there?

He asked the important question first. "Jon, where'd you get the twenty?"

"Legally, I don't have to tell you," said Jon. "Which means that Alicia Campbell of Akron, Ohio will never know what a sweet mellow her donation bought."

Stephen wasn't sure he liked this. Mostly because he wasn't being included. "Can I have a hit?"

"Nope. That would be improper coordination."

"You could roll me one in normal paper," huffed Stephen. "It's the least you could do, since that's coming out of what is supposed to be — according to your plans, and this should not be taken as a statement of coordination — the fund buying ads for my run for President, in the form of Herman Cain's run for President."

Jon rolled his eyes instead. "Still wouldn't be proper. Felix Matos, of Silver Springs, Maryland, funded the weed."

 

 

Stephen was pinned against his office wall, which in theory sounded really hot, but in practice was scratchy and surprisingly uncomfortable. Maybe you weren't supposed to do this on brick. "Jon, it hurts."

"Mmm," said Jon, rolling his hips against Stephen's and nipping Stephen's neck. "You like it when it hurts."

"I — okay, yes, but — but not necessarily — Jon, stop!"

There was a terrifying moment when Stephen thought, _what if he really doesn't stop?_ Then Jon's weight was off him, Jon's hands brushing off the back of his sweater where the brick had torn at the knit. "God, babe, I'm sorry. I don't know what got into me there."

His eyes were soulful and apologetic and definitely blue. Maybe it was the light? "Aren't you here for a SuperPAC meeting anyway?" asked Stephen, who was starting to think perhaps they didn't need to have sex _every_ time they were in the same building.

"Yeah, we finished that," said Jon with a shrug. "Made a lot of great decisions on which you have no input. At least, I think they were great. To be honest...I'm afraid I'm starting to lose my perspective on this whole unlimited-money no-strings thing."

"You could tell me what you're planning," said Stephen hopefully. He hadn't seen a dollar of that money in ages, excepting the ones he kept breathing in via Jon's secondhand smoke, and was starting to get nostalgic. "I could tell you your ideas are fantastic, and it wouldn't be coordination because we would both know I was saying it to make you feel better, regardless of my actual opinion."

Jon let out a noncommital sigh. He was kind of hugging Stephen now, which was nice. He had been all awkward about that sort of thing before, which Stephen now took to be a sign of losing control of his system for managing his deep-seated attraction to Stephen. But then, he hadn't exactly cuddled Stephen a lot recently, either...just driven Stephen crazy with lust, shoved him around to Jon's satisfaction, and then moved on to food or sleep or a joint or whatever Jon had decided came next.

Stephen flailed with his own arms for a moment, then put them around Jon's shoulders. "How come you haven't hugged me before?" he asked, with just a touch of manly pouting. "Am I doing something wrong? I haven't blamed a single natural disaster on same-sex marriage in weeks, did you notice?"

"Huh?" Jon tugged out of the embrace, blinking in irritation. The light hadn't changed, but his irises were Emerald City green. "No, I didn't notice. I'm a busy man, you know that? Show to write. Money to spend. Federal election laws to exploit. Now, are we gonna do it, or should I take off?"

 

 

Stephen's first plan was simple: Demand the money back.

The unlimited, untraceable cash was obviously too much for Jon to handle. In less than two weeks his natural warm-and-fuzzy personality had been almost totally overwritten with selfishness, self-absorption, and a lust for power and control. And since Stephen already had those traits in spades, he couldn't exactly have a boyfriend who amplified them, now could he?

...even if he _had_ just thought the word "boyfriend" without immediately following it with "is destroying America," which meant some of Jon's nature was rubbing off on him, too.

The first plan didn't work out so well. Stephen ended up left out in the cold. Literally, because he was sitting on the roof of their building with the January frost creeping through his coat and earmuffs, waiting for Jon's zeppelin to land.

It was bright inside the observation gondola, and the silver-blue light briefly backlit Jon as he sauntered down the gangplank, in a wool coat and a new Armani suit. He approached Stephen in the dwindling light of the airship as it lifted off for whatever hangar it had come from. "What are you doing out here? Don't know if you've noticed, but baby, it's cold outside."

"Don't pretend to be thinking about my feelings!" yelled Stephen. "If you care so much, why did you buy a zeppelin with my money?"

Jon shrugged. "Wasn't thinking about your feelings then, obviously. I was more thinking about how I really, really wanted a zeppelin."

"Well, let me tell you, mister, you are not getting any tonight!"

"Suits me. I was gonna turn in early anyway."

Defeated, Stephen followed him in. Under the lights of the elevator he scoured Jon's eyes for a flash of blue. No such luck. Which meant he had no chance to ask, and expect an honest answer, whether Jon would still want to be Stephen's boyfriend after he was restored to caring about the general welfare of America ("America" here meaning "Stephen").

Jon got off at his floor without looking back. Stephen shivered alone in the elevator and worked on Plan B.

 

 

The instant Stephen showed up, Jon knew he was in trouble. Blurting out that it was early for Valentine's Day probably didn't help.

The chase blew out of the _Daily Show_ office and down the streets of New York, through parks and into horse-drawn carriages, past walls of graffiti and under the _Report_ 's bustling upper floors. Jon dodged old equipment and outdated props and slammed his hands against a locked door, panicking, while the tiny voice of reason locked in a corner of his brain protested, _Why not just give the money back? You don't even like exploiting people! And if you really needed all those ice sculptures of your face, you could have bought them yourself!_

His actual voice, firmly ignoring the voice of reason, was babbling about sharing the money and weren't they such good friends? until Stephen shushed him...and then pulled a rope that tightened around his feet and hoisted him into the air. All the blood rushed to Jon's head; Stephen caught it between his hands and moved their mouths together....

And then everything was green, bright and blinding green.

 

 

After Stephen had bounded off to do his show, one of the interns (now Stephen's interns again, and Jon had barely even gotten to know them while controlling the SuperPAC team) let Jon down and helped him to Stephen's office. His head ached like the world's most expensive hangover. Someone brought him a glass of orange juice and a couple of aspirin, and he collapsed onto the couch for a while in an attempt to doze it off.

All the money he had spent. All the ethics he had thrown out the window. Especially when it came to Stephen.

He was startled out of his half-nap by Stephen sashaying in, warm from the spotlights and grinning from the applause. "Jon! Good, you stayed! How are you feeling? Better? More able to function like a normal human being?"

"Better," agreed Jon, pulling his legs up toward his chest so Stephen could fit on the couch. He had kicked off his shoes at some point in his daze. "Stephen, you have no idea how sorry I am. I was way off the deep end there, you don't even know...I didn't hurt you or anything, did I?"

"You hurt my favorite sweater more than me," Stephen assured him, leaning against his knees. "Although you still have the ability to shred my tender heart if you're not careful."

Jon winced. "I wasn't using you or anything, I swear. Well, I was, but not like that! I do...I care about you, Stephen. A lot."

Stephen's bottom lip quivered. "That's what people always say before they break up with you!"

His hand was clutching Jon's thigh for support. Jon covered it with his own broader, furrier one. "Listen, you want to date? Really date, not just have me drag you around for sex whenever I feel like it? Then let's do it."

"Can't we do both?" pouted Stephen.

Jon giggled. "Yeah, all right."

Could humans purr? Because it sure sounded like that was what Stephen was doing, as he rubbed his face against Jon's kneecap.

"All I was gonna say is, I don't want to hide it from people," continued Jon, squeezing Stephen's hand when he stiffened. "Can you handle that? I know it's a lot to push you into all at once...would've mentioned it earlier, but I wasn't much with the long-term thinking skills then."

"Can we compromise?" asked Stephen. "Can I start by saying ambiguously romantic things in public, and work up from there?"

Just the word "compromise" coming from Stephen's mouth was a minor miracle, so Jon decided to go for it. "Sure."

"Great!" exclaimed Stephen, whose mood today was apparently even more mercurial than usual. He pulled his hand from Jon's to retrieve his phone. "Hang on while I tweet about how you're the Spider-Man to my Mary Jane."

Jon obliged, warm and fuzzy feelings multiplying in his chest. At last Stephen finished thumb-typing, hit send, and with a flick of his wrist tossed his phone across the room. Jon flinched at the crash. "Stephen! Careful with your stuff!"

"Ah, it's fine," said Stephen, pushing Jon's legs apart and climbing between them with a grin. He smelled like exertion and hair gel, and when he dove in for a kiss Jon realized how little attention he had been paying: all these weeks, he had never noticed the flecks of green in Stephen's brown eyes. "ColbertPAC can always buy me a new one."


	2. Act II. The Blue State

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After getting off to a rocky start, Stephen and Jon try to maintain their fledgling relationship. Can it stand up to the pressure of an election year?

**Election season.**

_February._

For the record, Stephen had every intention of fulfilling Jon's request. Eventually. When he got up the nerve. Maybe tomorrow. Or next week.

In the meantime, it wasn't exactly a pressing issue. It wasn't like back down South, where a couple of straight-laced God-fearing all-American men couldn't even be friends unless they backslapped hard enough and never talked about anything too fruity, like women as equals or the existence of emotions other than anger. Here in the liberal stronghold where he was unlucky enough to be living and earning millions of dollars, you could practically tongue-lock each other live on televison and the public would dismiss it as "such a beautiful friendship."

This kind of froufy openness meant Jon shouldn't have any trouble waiting for him. Jon had already been in the habit of mentioning Stephen warmly on a regular basis, shoving his naked affection for the man in everybody's faces. Why couldn't he just keep doing that indefinitely? He didn't need to lie or do anything unusual to spend time with his boyfriend; he could say "Sorry, I'm busy, having dinner with Stephen tomorrow," and everyone would know exactly as much as they needed to without batting an eye.

So Stephen was going to be brave and fess up to the whole thing in public one of these days, but there wasn't any real reason for it. Which, if you think about it, made him all the more brave for making the plans at all. He was very impressed with himself when he thought about it, enough that he needed to take a couple of days to recover from how impressive he was.

And his plea for delay had nothing to do with the fact that he now had enough untraceable cash to buy and sell a dozen younger, hotter, less picky partners if he felt like it.

Not in the beginning, anyway.

 

 

When Valentine's Day itself rolled around, Jon woke up at half past six to find Stephen doing the world's most terrifying cat-staring-all-up-in-your-face impression.

"Gyargh!" he choked, pushing Stephen away until their noses were several feet from each other instead of like three inches. "Oh my god don't _scare_ me like that. What are you doing? Is anything wrong?"

Stephen pulled Jon's cream-colored comfortor more snugly around himself. The fact that he pulled it off of Jon in the process didn't seem to bother him. "What'd'ya get me?"

"...what?"

Stephen's eyes narrowed. Jon couldn't help but notice how the hue made Stephen's skin look pink and appealing (and brought out the warm browns in his eyes), in sharp contrast to the way Jon always ended up feeling kind of ashy in comparison to his own furnishings. "Don't tell me you forgot to get me a Valentine."

"Apparently your Valentine is the full use of my bedcovers," said Jon dryly. "C'mere. It's cold."

Though he didn't let it go without a good long pout, Stephen submitted to snuggling. "I want chocolate."

"There's probably some chocolate in the house," allowed Jon.

"Is it heart-shaped? Wrapped in a ribbon? Packaged in sparkly red?"

"Uh...."

"Jo-on! If you don't buy into prepackaged consumer rituals in the gaudiest and most commercial way possible, how am I supposed to know if you care about me at all?"

Jon nuzzled his neck, unworried. When exactly had Stephen's pouting shifted in his mind from annoying to adorable? "Stephen, we have work in an hour, and I'm not going to waste any of that traipsing through the slush to get you chocolate. Because I want to spend as much time as possible with you. Okay?"

When Stephen spoke again, the indignation had mellowed right out of him. "I guess this once I'll allow it."

 

_March._

Documents in hand, Jon stopped at to Stephen's apartment, not bothering to go all the way up to his own. Stephen was watching TiVoed _Game of Thrones_ from behind the couch, and paused it in a hurry when Jon found him. "Jon! I'm fine. Never better. What are you so suspicious for?"

"Um," said Jon. "I was actually just here to give you some good news."

At last Stephen spotted the envelope in his hand, the twin of the one Stephen had gotten a couple of days earlier. "They came back clean?"

"Yep. Everything's clear."

"We can stop using condoms?" breathed Stephen.

Jon grinned and sketched a bow, sweeping the envelope like a doffed hat. "We can stop using condoms."

Stephen, who had been shocked and affronted when Jon insisted on putting safe sex back on the table ("If one of us has something, the other probably has it by now anyway!"), dragged him over to the couch for a celebratory blowjob.

The TV screen was frozen on a still of a striking, disapproving older redhead, which Jon was afraid was going to do strange things to his mental imagery. But then Stephen's face was between his legs already breathing hard though he hadn't even gotten Jon's pants off, and, mmm, that was a pretty all-encompassing sight....

"So glad you're a dude," murmured Stephen. Jon had to focus to understand the words, what with Stephen's lips moving _right there_ and all. "If you're gonna be living in sin, with another guy is the way to do it."

"Hey now," said Jon, because if you were going to be pedantic you couldn't just let it slide because the circumstances were distracting. "Gonna have to take issue with your phrasing there."

"Of course you are." Stephen started undoing Jon's fly. "But you can't argue the principle. It is way cheaper to be in a relationship where you can put out all you want without pressuring the country as a whole to subsidize it."

Okay, now this was starting to harsh Jon's buzz. (He kind of wanted to punch whoever had decided to reignite a public debate on contraception in the first place.) "Stephen, that's not fair," he said, squirming in an effort to find an angle that would make the arm of the couch a more comfortable pillow. "There are lots of women on birth control for medical reasons that have nothing to do with sex. And even when they're not, insurance covers Viagra, right? It covers STDs. If I had accidentally given you herpes back in January, wouldn't you want the treatment?"

"That's different, Jon! Herpes can be contracted by a single unplanned incident in college when you're young and impressionable and have had a couple drinks and it turns out the square-jawed football player called Duke knows how to say a couple of phrases in Quenya. Being on birth control implies premeditated sluttitude."

It was high time for a strategic withdrawal in Operation: Lie Down Comfortably On This Stupid Couch. Jon sat up. The sudden height advantage was arresting enough to make Stephen stop nibbling on his boxers and glance at his face. "Seriously, Stephen, you have to knock that off. The insults, I mean."

"I have free speech!" protested Stephen. "Just like Rush Limbaugh!"

"Yeah, and I have the freedom to control access to my pants. Limbaugh is, for a variety of reasons, not allowed anywhere near them. You want to hang on to your own all-access pass, you don't call women on birth control sluts. You don't call _any_ woman a slut. Or...or a whore, or anything like that. Got it?"

Stephen's brows furrowed. "What if she's eighty percent of the female characters on _Game of Thrones_?"

"...If someone literally has a career as a prostitute, and if it's relevant, you may refer to them a prostitute," allowed Jon. "But that's all."

"Oh, fine." Stephen rested his head on Jon's thigh. "Are you going to go back to making sexy faces now?"

Jon had a feeling he was pretty much tapped out on sexy faces for the moment. Then he made the mistake of glancing at the TV screen again, and yeah, that lady really did not approve. "Finish your episode," he said instead. "I'll even watch with you. Unless you wanted to be behind the couch again? What were you doing there, anyway?"

"I'm not scared of the dragons!" blurted Stephen. "Or the wolves! Or the bears. Are there bears? It seems like the kind of universe that would have a lot of bears."

"Dunno." Jon shifted positions so he could be the big spoon. "Are there bears in the books?"

Stephen managed to put aside some of his terror to be condescending. "You're cute," he said, handing Jon a throw pillow long enough for both their heads to rest on. "You think I've read the books."

 

_April._

Ducking into the break room for a soda and some Doritos (so Stephen had rubbed off on him, so sue him), Jon nearly ran into a huddle of excited correspondents, several of whom clammed up in a hurry. "Hey, guys. What's going on?"

Al immediately straightened up and adjusted his glasses in an authoritative manner. "Well, I can tell you one thing," he said, in his most professorial voice. "It's definitely _not_ an illegal betting pool."

"Guys, it's fine. Jon's cool," said Sam, trying to sling her arms over the shoulders of Al and a nervous-looking Jessica. "Hey, Jon, how about it? You want to get in on this?"

"Depends on what we're betting on," said Jon. Also, who was running the pool. He scanned the circle and settled on Jason, judging by the clipboard and the fake glasses.

It was Wyatt who answered him. "Which former Republican primary candidate will be the first one to have a possibly alcohol-fueled public breakdown in the street."

"I have dibs on Herman Cain," added John Oliver. "I know this man. I have spent time with this man. He is a lock. There will be tears involved. Also, pizza. Possibly rants about space aliens."

"Speaking as someone who traveled extensively with the Gingrich campaign," put in Sam, "I am all in. You have no idea the kind of Cheese-Whiz-fueled benders already going on in the back of that bus."

"I really want it to be Ron Paul, 'cause that would be hilarious," said Wyatt casually. "But I don't know if it's worth putting money on."

"Al was just about to flip a coin to decide whether to go with Santorum or Perry," said Jason to Jon. "Unless you wanted to call one of them first?"

Sure, why not? "Put me down for fifty on Santorum."

"Ooh!" exclaimed Jessica, while Jason was scribbling the information down. "Ooh, ooh, I got one! I'm betting on Colbert!"

A start ran through the group: Jon and John flinching, Sam and Wyatt frowning, Al and Jason freezing. "Does he really count?" asked Wyatt. "I mean, he was more of a wannabe candidate than an actual candidate. No offense," he added to Jon, as Al and John both inched nervously away from him.

Jon rolled his eyes and focused on the newest correspondent, who had finally caught on and was subtly tensed to dodge if he started yelling. "Relax, I'm not offended. I just don't want you to waste your money. Stephen's my...my very good friend, and I'm not going to let him get himself in trouble like that."

("Isn't it hard to be a model of responsibility when you got wasted in a zeppelin earlier this year?" murmured Wyatt. John shushed him.)

"Hey, boss, I appreciate that you're friends and all," said Jessica. "But if I had a nickel for every time one of my friends did something stupid that was out of my control, I...well, I'd still be working here, because this job is awesome. But I'd have a lot more nickels."

Sam came to the rescue. "You're probably too young to be gambling anyway," she announced. "We have an age limit of twenty-five or older for that sort of thing."

Jason frowned over his clipboard. "We do?"

"Yes, _sweetie,_ we do," said Sam, glaring daggers at him in a way that added, _and if you value your sex life, you will "remember" that in a hurry._ "How about this: Jessica doesn't bet, and we all agree that whoever wins will take her out for a milkshake afterward."

There were general murmurs of agreement from all assembled. Jessica was mollified. "I do like milkshakes."

 

 

"So, hey, I had another moment the other day," said Jon, over the most halfhearted seder ever. Seriously, he had thrown together some matzo ball soup, hard-boiled eggs, and a medley of whatever bitter-looking vegetables were sitting around in the fridge, and was probably on like his sixth glass of wine. (They were small glasses, okay?)

"Uh-huh," said Stephen through a mouthful of egg. (He had snuck his share of the vegetables onto Jon's plate earlier while Jon was distracted for a moment. Not that Jon blamed him.) He swallowed, wiped his mouth, then added, "Don't worry, it's a natural part of getting older. Although if you try to use them as an excuse for forgetting my birthday, I'm disowning you."

"...I didn't mean a senior moment, babe. Let me finish, okay? I mean, a moment where you came up and I wanted to use the word 'boyfriend' and then had to do an unconvincing fumble. I think people are starting to wonder if we've had another fight or something, because I keep tripping over calling you my friend."

"Maybe that's good," said Stephen. "C'mon, Jon, look on the bright side. If people think we're secretly at each other's throats, they'll be less likely to notice that we're secretly boning."

"Stephen, you remember that the goal is to be not-secretly boning, right?"

The uncertainty on Stephen's face was worrying. Jon wasn't kidding himself, he had known Stephen was flighty going in, but this was kind of a big deal.

Then Stephen pushed back his chair and put down his wine. "I was going to save this for later, but I think maybe you could use the pick-me-up. Especially since this holiday of yours is a serious downer. C'mon."

"It is kind of a sober day of remembrance of the historic persecution of my people," pointed out Jon, following him out into the living room.

"Yeah, and it knocks right up against the sober day of remembrance of the tragic murder of my Lord and Savior, but that doesn't mean we can't get chocolate and jelly beans out of the deal."

Stephen led Jon to one of the bookshelf cabinets and dug through his designated drawer. He had claimed a drawer or a cupboard in just about every room in the aparment, and, since they weren't exactly needed for anything practical when his whole apartment was a couple of floors down, filled most of them with knicknacks. Jon had thought it was adorable, if ridiculous, and hadn't paid them any attention since the original claiming spree.

He was paying plenty of attention now, when Stephen whipped out a couple of glossy tickets. "Ta-da."

"You got me Springsteen tickets," breathed Jon.

"I got you live VIP Springsteen tickets," elaborated Stephen. The green flecks in his eyes were practically sparkling with pride. "Signed merchandise and a backstage tour included with the package."

Jon had a vague suspicion that Stephen might have made this purchase with SuperPAC money, and that this was somewhat less than ethical. He would have chastised Stephen about it, but he was too busy trying to lick the tickets. "Hngh."

"Ah-ah-ah!" Stephen whipped the fragile prizes out of reach of Jon's tongue. "Save that for Bruce. And, in the interim, for thanking me."

"You're gonna get some thanks, all right." Jon wound his arms around Stephen's shoulders and gave him a quick kiss. "So, uh. Are you trying to imply that this can be, like, a date? Of the public kind?"

Stephen winced. "Tell you what. I will spend the whole thing adjacent to you, and will graciously avoid any complaint about certain performers' upcoming fundraisers for certain non-Romney Presidential candidates. And if there are lyrically-induced moments of high emotion, I will permit you one or two enthusiastic hugs in full view of the public."

"Stephen, just because you're bribing me with Springsteen doesn't mean you don't have to be reasonable," groaned Jon. "I'm going to need at _least_ eight."

 

_June._

Jon wasn't (entirely) stupid. He knew he was being manipulated. It was just that Stephen was too good at it for him to mind yet.

Besides, the situation wasn't exactly out of control. Jon knew he could push Stephen around if he wanted to; the bruises he'd left, and later caressed every few days until they faded from Stephen's body, were proof of that. No wonder Stephen felt he had to resort to bribery, right? Jon owed it to him to be a little indulgent.

During their July vacation, Jon was on the brink of resolving to end the indulgence and put his foot down tonight, when Stephen returned to the beach house with a double-whammy of gifting and guilt. "It's for you," he said, pressing the bag into Jon's hands, "but you have to promise to share this time, okay?"

"Of course," said Jon, switching over to a new resolution: that tonight would be all about cuddling and making Stephen feel cared for. "You want it rolled, or baked?"

Stephen frowned. "I thought we were the ones who got baked."

"No, I meant, like, in brownies."

"Uh-huh. Uh-huh, I see. So...those are uppers, or what?"

"They are brownies!...Stephen, are you sure you got actual weed here? You didn't just hand money over to the first guy you saw who looked like a long-haired surfer type, did you?"

"Don't make fun of me for not knowing your drug lingo, Jon," sulked Stephen. "And no, he was not just a long-haired surfer type. He was a long-haired surfer type filling a whole cart at the A&P with nothing but Doritos. You have to admit, that's a very promising sign."

Jon sighed. "Okay, I'm making brownies. That way, if we don't get high, at least we won't feel like complete morons."

He ended up hand-feeding bits of brownie to Stephen while they sat on the porch and got caught up on campaign ads. It was a lot more palatable that way. True, Stephen tried to seize a few of the openings they provided to explain to Jon how liberalism was ruining the country, but when Jon could shut him up by giving him a couple of fingers to suck, that was downright bearable.

 

_July._

The turning point was probably the evening when Jon ducked into the kitchen for a drink and found Stephen's fridge stuffed to the gills with boxes of Chick-Fil-A.

"This isn't just about some guy's right to be a dick," he tried to explain. He hadn't realized this at first either, so it was only fair to give Stephen the benefit of the doubt. "Part of the company's profits go to anti-gay organizations. When you buy from them, some of your money eventually goes into those campaigns."

Stephen, who was up on a stepstool to rearrange his display shelf of commemorative plates from P. K. Winsome, shrugged. "So it's just like funding a cause directly, only I get chicken out of it? I'm a kingmaker, Jon, I gots to make some kings. But I also gots to eat, you know?"

"This isn't like buying an autism education bumper sticker, Stephen! This is people fighting _against_ you. Against _us!_ "

"When you have enough money, you can lecture others on right and wrong regardless of your own moral failings. Have we learned nothing from the Gingrich campaign?"

Jon was too taken-aback to answer right away. His voice, when he found it, was dangerously low. "Is that what I am to you, Stephen? A moral failing?"

Stephen took a breath to answer, then caught himself. He didn't look all that troubled. Just confused, as if Jon had asked him to solve a complicated math problem.

Jon waited.

"I...no," said Stephen. The white-knuckled grip he had on the edge of the shelf belied his mildly puzzled manner. "No, that's not right...I don't feel so good. I think I need to sit down...."

On instinct, Jon stepped forward, and was there with an arm around Stephen's waist when Stephen stumbled down from the footstool. His brow was furrowed, eyes unfocused; the green flecks in the irises seemed to get brighter or darker every time they changed angles, until at last he was sinking into one of the kitchen chairs.

"It's not about you being a moral failing," repeated Stephen, one hand locking around Jon's wrist. "We're just very concerned about the free-speech rights, including speech in the form of money, of people who _think_ you are. That's just strategy! Wedge social issues drive out the base on election day. It's the way to get the most bang for your buck. And we have to get as much bang as possible, because Jon, what if we slack off and _Romney loses?_ What then?"

 _Then maybe you can go back to normal,_ thought Jon, with the quiet desperation that he was starting to recognize as a constant in his life these days. _The feeding frenzy will slow down, so I can stop having to haul you back from FOX's latest rhetorical cliff every couple of weeks. The donors will lose interest in Colbert SuperPAC, so you won't have any money left to dazzle me with. Maybe you even pull a Cheney, and feel free to admit a more lefty attitude toward the queers — specifically, this queer — once it's too late to make a political difference._

Stephen was still talking. "You need to stop shoving your liberal socialist anti-religious agenda on me. It's very rude, Jon, and disrespectful of my feelings, and it's not appropriate. Not in a friendship, and not in a—"

"Okay."

"—deep emotional relationship with...what?"

"Let's just...not talk about politics for a while," said Jon. "Either of us. Let's kick all those cans down the road. Can we do that?"

Stephen gazed at him for a long, confused moment, then relaxed and patted Jon's arm. "I'm glad you've learned to see reason, Jon."

All Jon could think was, _I hope I'm not making a huge mistake._

 

_August._

A week of shows in Tampa, a week after that in Charlotte. The only moment Jon found to catch up with Stephen was on the plane ride in between.

"Our hotel is actually in South Carolina," he said, knowing that would make Stephen happy. "The ones across the border were all filled up by the time our people started booking."

The blocky, washed-out image of Stephen on his phone screen smiled with pride. "Sounds right. Those North Carolinians have no understanding of proper Southern hospitality."

"I know, right?...Hey, babe, are you okay?"

"What? Me? Fine! Never better!"

"You look kinda flushed, is all."

"I had a very inspiring guest last night," said Stephen primly. "I may or may not still be recovering."

"Yeah? Who was it?"

Stephen fidgeted. "You remember Clint Eastwood's inspiring and pointed interrogation at the RNC the other day?"

"I remember Clint Eastwood," hedged Jon. It had been the most unsettlingly hilarious thing he'd seen all month.

"Well...I got his chair."

"His...chair."

"It was a very eloquent piece of furniture, Jon!" cried Stephen. Was it the bad Skype connection, or was he sniffling? "It was a ringing endorsement for the power of hope. It's making me feel a lot of feelings."

Well, stop the presses. Stephen admitting any feelings at all beyond anger was a major good sign in Jon's book. "Can I ask what kind of feelings?"

"Feely feelings! Jon, I...." Stephen swallowed. "I'm in your bed right now, and it smells like you, and I really want you to come home. Can you come home?"

"Not yet, sweetheart," said Jon gently. "There's another week of shows to do, and I promised to be at this fundraiser for veterans tomorrow morning, and...I love you, though, okay? And I'll see you very soon."

 

_September._

Jon had his stuff packed in record time, skipped half the post-DNC wrap events, peeled off enough bills for Jessica to buy twenty milkshakes, and caught a flight home almost three hours earlier than originally planned.

He thought about calling Stephen, but decided against it. By the time Stephen would be expecting to hear from him, he'd be walking in the door. And wouldn't the look on his face be worth everything? Joy was a rare commodity with Stephen, reserved for special occasions like riding ponies and earning a tiara and and watching American gold medal wins in the Olympics. If this was going to be one such occasion, Jon wanted to be there in person.

His grand plan was somewhat derailed when he let himself into Stephen's apartment and found it empty.

"Look on the bright side, Stewart," he said to himself. "At least now you can shower and change before you jump the man." Sure, he had kind of hoped Stephen would be interested in washing his back, but he could work with this too.

He left his suitcase in Stephen's apartment, shoving it into a corner where it wouldn't be immediately obvious, in case Stephen came back here before he did. Then he headed up to his place, trying to picture what clothes he had that weren't grey T-shirts. Most of the stuff he'd purchased during his brief stint running ColbertPAC had been given to charity in a fit of shame, but there had to be something left that Stephen would like, right...?

Once in his front hallway, though, Jon had to revise his plans yet again. That was definitely mattress-squeaking coming from his bedroom.

_I'm in your bed right now, and it smells like you._

Jon was hit with a delicious rush of electricity. Had Stephen been sleeping here for the entire two weeks? How often had he been...enjoying himself...to the tune of those leftover sensations? It was touching _and_ sexy.

Toeing off his shoes, Jon crept on sock feet down the hall.

He kept up the quiet until the last second, swinging the door open and smiling warmly. "Hey, babe. Want a little help with—?"

Stephen squeaked in astonishment. The smile froze on Jon's face.

And the chiseled younger man who had been jerking Stephen off while licking his chest stopped both actions and yanked a pillow protectively in front of his own hips.

 

 

Only with a violent effort of will did Jon keep his seething anger in check while Hot Young Guy ran around looking for clothes.

"Jon, I don't want you to overreact to this," said Stephen, holding the bedsheet over himself. "Barry and I were just—"

"Stephen? Shut up," hissed Jon.

"Sorry, man," panted Hot Young Guy — Barry — as he hopped into his pants. Jon turned furiously away from the great view of his sculpted butt, only to get a great view of Stephen staring at said butt. "Stephen did not mention you."

"I'll bet he didn't," said Jon darkly.

Barry had thicker, darker curls than Jon had ever had, plus smooth brown skin and a lyrical accent. Stephen had always been weak for accents. With the exception, to Jon's great dismay, of Yiddish. "I swear, I never would've gone home with him if I had known—"

"Home?" interrupted Jon. "This is _my fucking bedroom._ "

That stopped Barry in his tracks. Gaping at Stephen, he said, "The hell were you thinking, man?"

"Out!" snapped Jon, pointing to the hall.

Barry grabbed his hoodie and — a camera bag? — and jogged past him. Jon followed the kid to the door, watched as he retrieved a thick coat and a pair of scuffed boots from the entryway, and all but shoved him outside. He could finish dressing in the hall. Or the lobby. Or the front stoop, for all Jon cared.

"You do a great show!" called Barry, in the last second before Jon slammed the door behind him.

 

 

Stephen was still concealing his body under the sheet when Jon stalked back in. Like he had any modesty left to preserve.

"You need to leave too," said Jon.

If Stephen stuck around much longer, he was going to get punched. And that would hurt Jon's hand.

"Jon, come on, stop and think about this," said Stephen. "He doesn't mean anything to me—"

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?" At least if Stephen had fallen in love, maybe Jon could have understood—

"—but you left me alone for two weeks! A man has needs, Jon!"

"I was alone too!" shouted Jon. "And somehow I managed not to trawl the Carolina section on Rentboy.com!"

"That is _not_ fair. Barry is an _artist_. He's only using online advertising until he gets his big break!"

"You actually got him from—?" Spitting mad, Jon forced himself to stop, before he gave himself an asthma attack. "Forget it. I don't care. Where you met, how long it's been, what kind of photos of you he got while he was here—" ("Tasteful ones!") "—I don't care, I don't want to know, I just want you out of here."

"Fine." Stephen got to his feet, twisting the sheet like a toga, and began his own less frantic hop around the room. "We'll talk about this later, when you've calmed down."

Jon took a deep breath. Then another. "I'm not going to calm down, Stephen."

"Sure you are. We'll go to a Mets game, I'll get you a skybox seat, we'll have a couple of cocktails and talk it all out—"

"Stephen. Stop it. It's over."

Stephen frowned. Pulled his shirt over his head. Was still frowning at Jon as his head pushed through the collar.

"I'm going to get my stuff out of your apartment, and then give you back the key," said Jon. "You're going to do the same. Anything you don't take, I'm dumping at the nearest Goodwill."

"Jon...."

"Have you been safe? No, don't answer that, I'm getting tested either way. And you better pray it comes back clean, because if I have to think about how long this has been going on, or with how many people—"

"It was only because I missed you!" yelled Stephen. "I only needed something because I missed you so much, because of how much I love you!"

"Maybe I would buy that line if you acted like it!" shot back Jon.

"What—?"

"You don't, Stephen! You're affectionate when it's convenient for you, and a dick when it's not. I ask you to do one serious, meaningful thing for me, and you blow it off for months and months — do you even understand how that hurts? And you buy me all these stupid extravagant bribes and kid yourself that that makes it okay. That's not love! That's — that's treating me like eighty percent of the female characters in _Game of Thrones!_ And I'm done with it, you understand? I am _done_."

Stephen was still, red-faced, nostrils flaring. "You hurt me too, you know," he said fiercely. "You gave me _bruises_ , Jon."

"And I apologized," snapped Jon. "And if you had decided to kick my ass to the curb anyway, you would have been completely within your rights."

Stephen didn't have anything to say to that.

Jon didn't follow him to the door. He stayed rooted to the spot until he heard it slam.

 

 

He wanted more than anything to crawl into his own bed and have a good cry, but obviously _that_ was out.

Instead he ended up in a guest room, curled around the childhood teddy bear that had been hastily stuffed in a drawer and ignored since Stephen first began sleeping over.

It hurt like hell. He felt like a forest after a wildfire, burned out in the first rush of anger, left charred and empty in its wake. But even in the sobs where he was missing the good times with Stephen most desperately, there was one more thing he couldn't help but feel. Or not-feel.

The weight of that lump of quiet, constant anxiety was gone.

 

_October._

Stephen stumbled through the next two months of shows in a daze.

Something had gone horribly wrong, and he knew it. But it was so hard to _think_ about any problem that couldn't be solved by burying it in large piles of cash.

They didn't have to do tosses anymore. That was convenient. Or not convenient, depending on what time of day it was when Stephen thought about it.

 

_November._

...and then it was election night, and they _were_ doing a toss, live, and what was Stephen supposed to say? He hadn't even _seen_ Jon for weeks now. Not even passing in the lobby — maybe Jon was coming and going at odd hours, or maybe he had bought a new apartment in the building next door, or he could be helicoptering in and out from the roof for all Stephen knew.

Stephen ended up sticking his fingers and ululating over whatever Jon's opening was, then babbling mindlessly until they were out of time. Jon sat back and let him. Probably for the best. Stephen had always been the better babbler.

"I love you!" yelled Stephen at the last half-second.

The audience laughed, because _such a beautiful friendship_ , right? He caught the noise plus Jon's wince on the monitor before the connection flickered off.


	3. Act III. The Red Suit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The thrilling conclusion. In which our heroes pick up the post-election pieces.

**Holiday season.**

 

Their first real post-breakup fight was on-air.

It was ugly. Stephen ended up stabbing a ham.

The audience thought it was hilarious.

 

 

All right, maybe Stephen really _had_ lost Jon completely. So what? He had to look on the bright side, here: what did Jon bring to the table that a younger, hotter, less critical guy couldn't? Stephen could snap his fingers, or at least sign in on Rentboy.com, and have a vibrant boyfriend with a six-pack, and also nice abs, who wouldn't make a fuss when Stephen made perfectly logical threats to stop being on TV if his marginal income tax rates went up.

For that matter, who needed boyfriends? Hookup culture was the hip thing these days; all the kids were doing it. At least, they were all doing it as far as Stephen knew. That way you got some variety out of the deal, and didn't have to put up with stupid fights about not saying the word "boyfriend" in front of anybody else.

Stephen tried Barry's number first. Barry had been easygoing, combined a sexy accent with a firm grip, and was very effusive about how much the camera loved Stephen. You couldn't go wrong with that.

"That sounds fantastic," said Barry, once Stephen had made his opening pitch. "Are you sure your Mr. Stewart won't mind? Maybe we'd better meet in the studio. There are some openings next week, and I would love to capture how you look in better light."

"There isn't any 'my Mr. Stewart' any more," said Stephen. "Which is why I was hoping you'd have an opening tonight. And not in your studio, if you get what I mean."

"I'm very sorry, Stephen...but that won't work very well."

"Why not?" demanded Stephen.

"Because I'm in Florida."

"Florida? Great! I love Florida. I can book a flight right now. Where in Florida?"

Barry had to pause, presumably to take in the extent of Stephen's generosity, before answering. "In Florida with my family. Celebrating Thanksgiving."

"Oh," said Stephen. "Right. Thanksgiving's tomorrow. So _that's_ why I had the week off."

"I could stop by next week," said Barry cautiously. "If you like. And if it's really your apartment this time."

"Of course, of course," said Stephen, feeling lightheaded. "We'll see. I'll check my schedule. I'll call you back."

 

 

Jon spent the holiday at his brother's house, alternately helping in the kitchen and playing mock baseball with his nephews out in the lightly frosted yard. It was fantastic.

His mother, as usual, asked at dinner whether he'd found a nice girl yet. "Or a nice boy?" she added hopefully. "Either is fine with me, dear, you know that."

Jon tried to brush it off with good humor. He might be a lonely old perpetual uncle, but he didn't have to look miserable about it. Especially in front of the boys. "Mom, I promise, if I were seeing anyone, I would have told you by Thanksgiving."

"Well, I have good news!" said his mother. "My hairdresser's cousin has a son who isn't seeing anyone either. She says he's very handsome, and very interested in politics. And I said, ooh, my Jonny is interested in politics! Wouldn't you like to go out to dinner some time?"

"I think I'll pass," said Jon, while his brother and sister-in-law tried not to crack up. Seriously, how had JDate even gotten off the ground? You'd think the market was saturated. "I'm not really in a dating mood right now. You can thank her for looking out for me, though."

The night found him insomniac; he trudged down the stairs in a bathrobe and slippers, and holed up in the kitchen with a midnight slice of pie. He was halfway through it when his brother came down, and without asking poured them both drinks.

"I'm probably doing better than I look," said Jon. "Honest."

There was one light on in the room, and it was down a ways from the island where both men were sitting, but his brother's expression wasn't hard to guess. "Uh-huh. Is it just hitting the big five-oh that's getting you down? Or is there something else?"

Jon stabbed an apple slice out of his pie. "I was...with someone," he admitted. "Earlier this year. Most of the year, actually. And, well, now I'm not."

"Whoa. Sorry to hear it. Or maybe I'm not sorry, I don't know — were they a huge dick?"

"Careful there. For all you know, he was the love of my life, and I'm heartbroken about the loss but still won't stand to hear anything bad said against him."

"But you're smirking, which means he was a huge dick."

"Yeah, pretty much."

"In that case, not sorry at all. Good riddance. My favorite brother deserves better."

"He didn't start out as one, though," said Jon. "I mean, he was dickish, but in manageable quantities. I thought it was something we could live with...maybe for a long time, if you know what I mean. And then it...escalated."

"I see," said his brother. "Sorry about the escalation, then."

Jon forked apart a flaky section of crust. "Me too."

 

_December._

Stephen had a new crystal chandelier hanging from his bedroom ceiling, a new flatscreen on the wall framed by new high-def speakers, and a new disc-changing blu-ray player now holding all three of his new blu-ray extended cuts of the _Lord of the Rings_ movies. As long as he didn't pause them to eat, have sex, or go to the bathroom too many times, he could finish the epic rewatch in time to camp out for _An Unexpected Journey_ 's midnight release.

(And if he had to skip out early from the 12/12/12 Sandy relief benefit to get a good spot in line, well, clearly the people advocating on behalf of hurricane victims should have planned that better.)

Barry had not appreciated the "no pausing for sex" part.

He had also been dismayed enough to stop taking photos once he realized Stephen wasn't going to try any pose that involved looking away from the screen. "The uneven light is awful anyway," he complained. "Plus something in here is making your eyes look bright green."

And now Barry was _asleep_. The Nine Walkers were being chased through the Mines of Moria, and he couldn't even fake enough interest to stay awake for it. Who was Stephen supposed to cling to when the Balrog showed up, huh? The bootleg plush Thorin he had had shipped in from New Zealand (generously funded by Mike Litoris of Huntersville, North Carolina) was nice, but just not warm enough.

Clearly, Stephen needed to buy some kind of stuffed-toy-warming machine. Or go back to Rentboy and do some pre-screening, so he could be sure to hook up with a proper Tolkien aficionado next time. Or....

...or...

Stephen's head hurt. He dialed down the volume on Moria; it didn't help. There was something he wanted to think of, and it wasn't coming together.

"Sorry, Gandalf," he said under his breath...and paused the movie.

His phone was so new that it chimed with its factory-default noises as it tried to reach Trevor Potter. After a longer wait than usual, the lawyer extraordinaire picked up. "Hi, Stephen. Remember, this is overtime. Also, if this is another sex question, I'm charging extra."

"It's not a sex question." Well, not in any direct sense at least. Stephen licked his lips. "Trevor, I...I need to get rid of some money."

"It's all taken care of, remember?" said Trevor. "The SuperPAC has been shuttered, all the money sent to a secret untraceable fund which no one can trace. Considering your clever and subtle choice of a name, I'm sure nobody will even guess it was you."

"No, that's what I mean." Stephen swallowed. Was he sweating? Wow, this was harder than he'd thought. "I need to get ridder of that money than I already am."

Trevor considered it. "So...buying more expensive things for yourself wouldn't do the trick?"

"I've been buying a lot of expensive things," Stephen reminded him. "It hasn't worked yet."

"I do have one idea," said Trevor slowly. "Something I couldn't bring up before. But now that you're safely out of the SuperPAC game, I suppose it couldn't hurt."

"What? What couldn't hurt? Tell me!"

"There's this nonprofit I work with. They can always use more funding to keep the advocacy up. If you wouldn't have any objections to supporting more transparency in government...."

 

 

And so the brief life of the Ham Rove Memorial Fund was over as quickly as it began.

One moment it was flush with a vast donation from a source that never needed to be disclosed. The next it was being disbursed, partly to Trevor Potter's favorite nonprofit, mostly to hurricane relief serving Jon's favorite coastline.

Stephen sent Barry off in the morning with a handshake. "Have a good Christmas," he said, then considered. "Do you celebrate Christmas?"

"I don't," admitted Barry. "But don't worry. I practice a great and true religion."

"Oh." Stephen mentally reviewed all the War On Christmas rhetoric he'd so carefully memorized, then set it aside. "Well. Happy holidays, anyway. And good luck with the photography...thing."

"Thanks." Barry tipped his head forward a bit, not (thankfully) to go for one last kiss, but to study Stephen's eyes in the daylight. "Now, see, this is much better lighting for you. Stay in places like this as often as you can, okay?"

 

 

A sharp knock startled Jon out of sleep.

That wasn't supposed to happen. Cozy island beach resorts were supposed to gently lull you to sleep with the lapping of the waves, and not force you up until it was practically afternoon, just about time to go get a tropical drink mixed by an athletic tanned twentysomething in a form-fitting swimsuit. Jon squinted at the clock...yeah, it was three in the morning. Him and the concierge were going to have Words about this.

Muttering unkind things under his breath, Jon pulled on a plaid bathrobe over his undershirt and boxers and shuffled to the front of his gorgeous rental beach house. Whoever it was, they had better have a great reason for....

Then he saw who it was, and stopped cold. That was not a uniform you yelled at.

"Uh, hi," he said instead, blinking, "Aren't you hot in that?"

"Of course not! It's magic, ho ho ho," laughed the heavy old man in the thick, fur-lined coat and pants. "You, though, you'll need something heavier once we get up north! Don't worry, there are coats your size in the sleigh."

Jon looked over the visitor's shoulder. The sledge on his lawn was as big as a bus, painted a rich scarlet with gold trim, piled with sacks all frosted with snow that hadn't had time to melt in the tropical heat. Harnessed to it stood a team of nine huge, shaggy mooselike creatures: real reindeer, not the dainty temperate creatures shown in holiday specials. The one in front tossed its head, setting off a cascade of bells, and flashed its bright red nose. _Like a light bulb,_ Jon thought automatically.

"So if you're real," he said, "what does that mean for, uh, the other Christmas guy?"

"Now, now, young man, I don't handle theology! I'm just a deliveryman, ho ho ho." He gave Jon a conspiratorial wink. "You don't have to come along, of course, but you _were_ someone's only wish this year. Normally we don't try to fill that sort of request, but in certain, oh ho ho, special circumstances, exceptions can be made. Unless you'd rather not?"

"No, it's cool," said Jon. "Let me just grab a pair of shoes."

 

 

"So what kind of person rates a personal delivery of a human being on Christmas?" asked Jon, clambering over a sack of what felt like Legos to a waiting fur-lined blanket. "Child cancer patients, something like that?"

A lump next to the blanket shifted, and Jon realized it wasn't a sack of toys but another blanket, wrapped around...an elf? Nah, that was a human being, and a familiar one. "Could be. I know it's usually sick twelve-year-old girls who ask to see me. Don't know how many people in that age range watch _The Daily Show_ , though."

"Justin!" exclaimed Jon, offering his hand and getting a mittened handshake from the floppy-haired heartthrob. "Haven't seen you since that crystal skull accidentally switched our bodies. How's life treating you?"

"Oh, you know, can't complain. Finally finished recording on the new album, dropped it earlier this year. And I've got a fragrance in stores now, so every girl can make her boyfriend smell like what she imagines I smell like."

"Sounds like solid marketing," said Jon approvingly. "I've always wondered...what's it like to have people actively want to smell like you?"

Their driver was fully occupied with the reindeer, but the pleasant conversation with Justin kept Jon from paying too much attention to the dark sea below them. It was only when presents started dropping out of the sacks around him (guided to the right chimney by more magic, probably) that he realized they had overtaken the coastline, and were now swooping low over a town with only streetlights still aglow. Soon afterward a torrent of wide, fluffy snowflakes started swirling around them, and Jon huddled into his complimentary down-lined coat.

The madcap flight slowed over a sparkling city, and stopped altogether on the roof of a tall, boxy building with a helicopter landing pad handily in place. "So nice of hospitals to give us an easy landing, ho ho ho! If only they had chimneys, we'd be all set."

 

 

Now mostly alone in the back of the sleigh, Jon made the mistake of looking over the piles of sacks to see what they were passing by. Apparently, it was mountains.

He didn't want to distract Santa (and wow, talk about a phrase he'd never expected to think), but he was going to make himself sick if he didn't get his mind off the height, so he leaned over the headrest of the front of the sleigh. "Hey, uh, can I ask where we're landing to deliver me, exactly?"

"Don't worry, ho ho ho, we're not landing!"

"...come again?"

"This house has a chimney! You can be delivered straight by drop, no stopping necessary."

"Whoa, okay, hold on," stammered Jon, grabbing on to the polished wood. "This was not disclosed upfront. I would not have agreed to this if I had realized it didn't involve a Bieber-style dropoff."

"I'll land to pick you up before sunrise," Santa assured him. "If you want to be picked up, that is! Ho ho ho."

Jon threw a suspicious glance at the horizon off to their side. Forest. Vaguely familiar forest, but then lots of forests looked vaguely familiar, especially from this angle. "And you're gonna know that by...more magic?"

"What else? One last thing: this young man always leaves out milk and cookies for me, which you are welcome to have, if you like."

"Who is it?" blurted Jon. The snow was getting thicker, swirling, making it hard to see. "Will you at least tell me whose house—?"

And then he was dizzy, spinning, falling...

...tumbling out of the fireplace, coughing with the ashes as he rolled onto Stephen's bearskin rug. Judging by the faint jingle of bells above, the sleigh was already taking gone.

"This is not fair," muttered Jon to nobody in particular.

Even if Stephen had done enough good to be thrown safely back into the "nice" column, Jon wanted to find that out for himself. He didn't want to be pressured to accept it just because Santa said so. And he definitely didn't want his personhood treated as some kind of prize for his ex, with no regard for his own feelings or desires or...

...ooh, were those cinnamon sugar cookies?

Jon crept over to the table. The room was well-lit, between the colorful bulbs on the tree and the row of fake candles in each window. Yeah, that was a whole assortment of cookies, including cinnamon sugar, and chocolate chip, and oatmeal scotchies, and...

...and something went _click_ below his feet, where a sturdy rope tightened around his feet and yanked him into the air.

 

 

Stephen took the stairs two at a time, pajamas flapping as the air blew past, and flipped on the cabin's first-floor lights...then skidded to a stop on the floorboards, befuddled. "Jon? What are you doing in my Santa trap?"

"Getting dizzy," said Jon, swinging gently from the ceiling, eyes squinting against the sudden brightness. He was wearing a thick padded coat and boots over a flimsy robe, hanging in a way that showed some of what looked like even-flimsier underwear, not that Stephen was looking. "Will you let me down now?"

Stephen approached, too wary to let him down just yet. "You are Jon, aren't you? I mean, you're not Santa in a Jon disguise? What about Black Peter in a Jon disguise? Will you stuff me in a sack and carry me away if I let you free?"

Even upside-down and red in the face, it was obvious that Jon was struggling not to say something bitterly sarcastic. "Yes, I'm really me. Stephen, please, I'm losing feeling in my feet."

Stephen went to the winch he'd rigged up and started easing Jon down.

After a bit of flailing, Jon's palms were safely splayed on the carpet. Then he was braced on his elbows, holding up his head, gasping for breath. The torso was a balancing act, but once that was steady Stephen let his legs down quickly, then ran to his side to undo the knot. (If anyone asked, he'd learned that in the Boy Scouts.)

"Sorry if I'm intruding," said Jon, on his back and not even trying to sit up, while Stephen worked on the rope. "I didn't mean to come here. Just sort of, uh, fell into it. I'm supposed to be getting a ride back to Bermuda tomorrow...but I could probably make it back to my cabin for tonight, if you still have the spare key."

Stephen cringed. Did Jon hate him that much, that he couldn't stand to be in the same building with him even if it meant shivering through a winter wonderland to get away?

"Jon, I...I screwed up. I know." He was on his knees, one hand resting on Jon's ankle. "I made some terrible, terrible mistakes, and I realize you will probably never like me again, but can't you stay? Please? I have a guest bed. It's very comfortable, and you don't have to walk through any snow. Please stay."

Jon hoisted himself off the floor. Still in the coat, he was puffy and adorable, and Stephen ached for the days when he could have pounced on the man and hugged him for it. There was snow melting in his hair. "Yeah, okay, I could do that. Thanks."

"I didn't get you a present!" blurted Stephen. Had to keep Jon talking, keep him interested, cling to his presence just a little longer. "I'm sorry. Did you want a present? I know you didn't want one with the SuperPAC money, but I couldn't do that anyway, because I gave it all away — did you notice? I don't know if you would have noticed. I didn't make a big deal about it, or anything."

Was that a smile? Stephen wasn't sure. It had been so long since Jon had given him one. "I did notice that, Stephen. And I'm glad you did it. It was...it was nice of you."

Stephen practically swooned with relief. He was doing great so far. In the sense of "great" that meant "not making Jon cry again." "I could still get you something, though," he added. "Even if it'll be too late to be a Hanukkah present. Or too early. I don't know when Hanukkah is, Jon."

Jon unzipped his coat. "Too late. You were right the first time."

"But it can be a Christmas present, right?" Stephen was trying not to hop with earnestness. "A philosophical Christmas present. Papa Bear swears that's a thing. Only I'm not sure he's right, because do philosophies qualify for tax-exempt status? I'm not sure that they do."

"Stephen..." Jon seemed to be searching for words, which was worrying, since Jon knew a _lot_ of words. "First of all, I really am glad to hear you using some critical thinking on O'Reilly's announcements, okay? But in general, about presents...you always knew what I wanted. And, well, we saw how well that turned out. So at this point, just don't worry about it, okay?"

"Okay," said Stephen weakly. "What about cider?"

"...what?"

"You look cold. I have cider. And instant cocoa. Are you going to be mad if I offer...."

"No," said Jon, softening. "No, Stephen, I would be okay with accepting cider from you."

"Great!" exclaimed Stephen. "Kettle's on the stove, cider mix is on the microwave, mugs are in the cupboard. Make me one too, okay? There's something really important I just remembered I have to do on the Internet."

 

 

Jon made hot cider, two mugs, and sat with Stephen on the couch while Stephen's fingers darted furiously over his tablet's screen-keyboard.

It was comforting, in a way, that Stephen was still Stephen. Made it easier for Jon to accept his flailing attempts at selflessness as genuine. He was settling back into the way he had been before the whole mess started, before Stephen torpedoed their relationship, before Jon gave him the opening to try it in the first place. Maybe they could be friends again soon. Maybe Jon could stop going to work by helicopter.

Stephen's cider sat untouched until at last he finished typing.

"Has anyone ever managed to teach you how to use Twitter?" he asked.

"Haven't even tried for about a year," admitted Jon.

"Well, this is the easy part," said Stephen with forced briskness. He pushed the tablet into Jon's lap; Jon nearly spilled his cider jerking it out of the way. "Reading. You start here, and go this way."

Jon got a grip on the tablet and started reading the way Stephen's finger had directed.

 

  
**Stephen Colbert** _@StephenAtHome 6m_  
ATTN: Nation: regret to inform you that I have been misrepresenting self for some time. Will endeavor to correct. In the name of Truth.

 

**Stephen Colbert** _@StephenAtHome 6m_  
I'm gay.

 

**Stephen Colbert** _@StephenAtHome 6m_  
oh god

 

**Stephen Colbert** _@StephenAtHome 5m_  
Not gay like the Flintstones' old time. Gay like rainbow flags, baby carrots, skill at interior design. Probably should have specified.

 

**Stephen Colbert** _@StephenAtHome 4m_  
Maybe Flintstones are other kind of gay too? Fred and Barney sure snuck away from wives to be together a lot.

 

**Stephen Colbert** _@StephenAtHome 4m_  
sorry that was getting off topic

 

**Stephen Colbert** _@StephenAtHome 3m_  
I know this all must seem very sudden but the reason is that I hurt someone I love very much by not admitting it earlier

 

**Stephen Colbert** _@StephenAtHome 2m_  
for all the salacious detail please refer to this summary of my feelings as sung by Iron Man [bit.ly/b5rflu](http://bit.ly/b5rflu)

 

**Stephen Colbert** _@StephenAtHome 2m_  
so I wanted to hurry up and get it out of the way before I have a chance to do that to anybody else.

 

**Stephen Colbert** _@StephenAtHome 1m_  
Also I don't believe we cause hurricanes.

 

**Stephen Colbert** _@StephenAtHome 1m_  
That's all I had to say. Thanks for reading. Sorry if this has been spamming anybody's tweet inbox (twinbox? (c) Stephen Colbert 2012).

 

**Stephen Colbert** _@StephenAtHome 39s_  
P.S. International Nation, please RT in case I have a fit of panic and try to delete before American Nation wakes up and sees it. TY.

 

Jon clicked the link, took a moment to process what song it was, and looked up.

Stephen was tilting forward like a tree in a hurricane, staring at his hands, which were folded in his lap. His face was pale, and, okay, he was shaking. Literally vibrating with every breath.

 

_Shake it off, Col-bert,_ thought Stephen furiously. Turned out it didn't help when shaking was the problem in the first place.

"This is...really good, Stephen," said Jon. He was doing the soft-voiced and slow-spoken thing again. "I want to say thank you, it's tremendous...but you're the one it's going to do the most for, in the end. You know that, right?"

"Uh-huh," said Stephen.

"It's going to be a big deal for a while," Jon added. "Some people will freak out. But it'll pass, and when the dust is all settled, you're going to feel a lot better. I promise, you are."

"Mmhmm."

"And...if there's anything I can do. In terms of support, or being someone to talk to, or...anything like that, you can ask me, okay? If, if that's something you would want...I'd be here for you."

"Can I have a hug?" croaked Stephen, raising his head.

"Yes. Of course." Jon put aside the tablet — carefully, since Stephen no longer had any unregulated donor money to replace it — and opened his arms to let Stephen settle into a long-awaited embrace. "Of course you can. Come here, Stephen. By this point, yeah, I think you've earned a hug."


End file.
